Read Online Searching for Celia by Elizabeth Ridley - Free Book Online Page B

“I’m not certain. Celia was hesitant to say too much.”
    “Did she often deliver money?”
    Sophie stiffens. “Occasionally.”
    My mind flashes to the modesty of Celia’s flat and the stacks of overdue bills. “Where did the money come from?”
    Sophie shakes her head. “No idea.”
    “Weren’t you curious?”
    “Not particularly.”
    My frustration grows. “Why not?”
    Sophie scowls. “I run a shelter for vulnerable young women, Miss Salvesen. We survive through charity donations. Forgive me if I don’t feel the need to explore the origin of every penny we receive.”
    “How much money have you gotten from Celia?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “A rough estimate, then?”
    “I really couldn’t say.”
    My arm throbs and I press it to my side, trying to deaden the pain. “Just in the last few months?”
    Sophie sniffs and dabs her nose with the tissue. “I’d have to check the books.”
    “Sophie, if you know something, anything, please tell us,” Edwina pleads, rising from the sofa to stand at my side. “For Celia’s sake.”
    Sophie sighs, reaching for another tissue. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
    I am about to press Sophie for more information when a young nurse enters the room and approaches us, clearing her throat. “Miss Jameson? The surgeon would like to speak with you.”
    Edwina touches my back and gestures toward the doorway. “We’d best leave,” she says softly. “Sophie and Tatiana will want to be there when Mileva wakes up.”
    “All right,” I reluctantly reply. Sophie hands me her business card and asks me to phone her when I have any news. Then Edwina and I say good-bye to Sophie and Tatiana and make our way down the corridor. Edwina and I are at the elevator before either of us speaks.
    “Do you think Celia intended to give Sophie the money from behind her bed?” Edwina proposes.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Could that have been the delivery she planned to make tonight?”
    The elevator arrives. We step inside and the lights flicker as the door rattles closed. Edwina pushes the button for the lower ground floor.
    “Possibly,” I reply. “But then Celia would have had no money for her new life.”
    “Unless…”
    “Unless what?”
    “Unless she wasn’t planning a new life. Maybe she planned to give Sophie the money and then kill herself.”
    “I doubt it.” My voice sounds hollow and metallic in the closed cavern of the elevator car. “Why get the credit card, the cell phone, the Dublin maps? Celia was planning escape, not suicide.”
    “I want to believe that, I really do. But—”
    “But what?” We reach the lower ground floor and the doors slide open. We emerge into a cold and sterile corridor that is bathed in a sickly greenish light.
    “You didn’t see Celia at her worst.” Edwina turns to face me, eyes flashing. “When her father died, when she cut her wrists, when she overdosed. Celia has a darkness inside her, a gaping wound, a grief that never goes away. She keeps it at bay with her sarcasm, her passion for her work, even her love-hate relationship with writing. Therapy and medication help. But even with plenty of support, if she felt overwhelmed, despairing…it scares me, knowing what she’s capable of.”
    Celia was once my lover—how could I not have known everything about her? But as Edwina speaks I don’t picture Celia of the threatening photograph from this afternoon, the haggard, bone-thin, sallow bleach blonde; no, I see Celia at age thirteen, then only four feet eleven inches tall, with hair dyed black and a black leather Harley jacket, standing onstage at Fillmore Junior High School in Green Bay, demanding to audition for the part of Jesus in the school production of Godspell , even though her voice was only average and she hated wearing makeup. To Celia, it was worth it. Anything to strike a blow for local feminism while simultaneously outraging the Fillmore PTA.
    “You’re right,” I admit to Edwina. “You’re much